


Faith in What I See

by rideswraptors



Series: Gallavich Shorts [7]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Some Whump, Some comfort, Terry gets Mickey, shameless-esque triggers and warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 11:34:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22495414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rideswraptors/pseuds/rideswraptors
Summary: Mickey makes a big decision.Doesn't take Terry long to voice his dissent.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Gallavich Shorts [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1611559
Comments: 21
Kudos: 373
Collections: Numerous OTPS Infinite Fandoms





	1. Chapter 1

Ian was in class when he got the call. The hospital was all right with accepting him into their program, but they wanted him to be re-certified properly. They were paying for all the classes, and Ian had been good about going. His siblings knew where he was, they knew to text. The only person who would call his cell was Mickey. And it wasn’t Mickey’s number. He excused himself quickly to take the call.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Ian Gallagher?”

“Speaking.”

“I’m calling from Holy Cross Emergency about your husband, Mikhailo Milkovich--”

“Mickey?”

“Yes sir, your husband was brought into the ER ten minutes ago with severe trauma. We need you to come down right away."

Ian nearly crushed his phone. "Is he okay? What happened?"

"He is in surgery right now. The police will be able to tell you more when you arrive."

"The police?"

"Yes sir--" 

But he didn't hear any more than that because he'd hung up and already started sprinting for the L. It took him 30 minutes to get there. Which was 29 too long. Ian paced the car the whole time, ignoring the stares and the odd looks. All he could think was that Mickey was hurt and he wasn't there. He texted everybody he could think of, just in case they were close by, but it was a long shot.

When he got inside and got to reception, he was almost immediately intercepted by a couple of cops. He tried to pull away to get back to the nurse, but they were insistent and he was too caught off guard to protest properly.

"Where is he? Where's my husband?"

The cop held out a placating hand, trying to subdue him. Didn't work.

"Sir, are you Ian Gallagher?"

"Yeah, yes, my husband-- where _is he_ ?" he growled out. He was distracted by someone calling his name. _IAN_!

He turned to see Jamie Milkovich jogging down across the hospital to him. He grabbed Ian's shoulder, winded. 

"It was Uncle Terry. They got 'im bad, Ian."

"Mr. Gallagher, we have some questions'--"

"Shut the fuck up!" he snapped, turning back to Jamie. "What happened?" He shook Jamie by the shoulders. "What the fuck happened?"

"I don't know, I swear I don't. Molly texted. Said Terry was on the warpath. Then Iggy called and said there was like six of 'em beatin' on Mick. Ig and Joe couldn't get there fast enough." Ian released him and put his hands up to his head, trying to get his breath back. It wasn't coming.

The cop leaned between them. "Terry Milkovich did this? Are they related?” 

Ian bent over, unable to find the words, so Jamie had to answer.

“Mickey’s his son.”

“Jesus _Christ_ , he did a hit on his own kid?” 

Ian put his hands to his hips, trying to get his heart under control, still frantic. Hands shaking. 

“Not a hit. He hates us for getting married. Burned down our wedding venue the day of and shot up our honeymoon suite.” 

“Damn it,” the cop hissed. He called out to his partner to get another unit to the hospital to round up those responsible. That’s when Ian caught sight of Terry coming out of an exam room. He was charging before he even knew his feet were moving.

“You fucking son of a _bitch_!” he screamed, arm cocked to take the old fucker out. He got so close he could see the panic on the man’s face, but he never got to his target. Out of nowhere, he got tackled to the ground. Not a clean cop take-down, but a dirty as shit southsider move that had him on his ass. He caught sight of dark blonde hair and a familiar profile, but he fought wildly against his captor. 

“Fuck you!” he screamed, throat clenching tight in protest, “fucking you, you fucking bastard. I will _kill you_!” He struggled against the arms trying to hold him down. Four more joined the effort and he was still managing to get to his feet. “Do you hear me you piece of shit? If anything happens to him I will fucking kill you!” 

The cop’s partner jogged into view, easily subduing the shocked Terry, but Ian lost track of what was happening because he was being held down hard against the floor as he sobbed. Vaguely, he heard Lip’s voice telling him to relax, that he was okay, everything was okay, Mickey would be fine, he needed to relax. Ian shook his head, trying to fight back the tears, but it wasn’t working very well. Everything hurt and the world around him was blurry; it felt like he was drowning, his chest was so tight. 

*

It took five minutes for Ian to pass out. He was a tough shit, and didn’t go down without a fight. But Lip cupped his head and talked him through it, tried to get him to relax. Took some time, and Tami insistently telling the cop that Ian was prone to panic attacks because of his disorder. He wished he’d gotten here before Ian, but traveling with a kid was tough. He looked over his shoulder at the cop who was holding his feet. 

“Hey man, you got your cuffs?”

“Yeah?” 

“Then you better cuff him to me or we’re in for a world of hurt when he wakes up.” Thankfully the guy managed without bitching about it. Then he looked over to his wife, holding Freddy’s hand and looking desperate for something to do.

“Why don’t you find a nurse? See what’s going on with Mick.” 

“Sure,” she said immediately, coming over to kiss his forehead. “Anything. C’mon Freddy, let’s go talk to that nice lady…”

He made eye contact with the cop again, who was looking a little perturbed. The guy rubbed his brow.

“You sure we shouldn’t cuff him to a chair or something?”

Lip snorted. “Not unless you want him breaking it and getting a weapon. C’mon. Help me get him up.” They managed to get Ian to his feet. Awake, but groggy as he tried to reorient himself. Lip got him into a chair and pulled another up, sitting knee to knee with him and locking him in. If he wanted to go after Terry, he’d have to haul his brother with him. Ian rubbed at his face, panting and chest heaving, and then he lifted his cuffed hand weakly. 

“Really?” he grumbled. 

“Really. I’m not telling Mick when he wakes up that he’s gotta go bail you out.” 

“ _Mickey_ ,” Ian half- sobbed, half-whispered, leaning forward. Lip threw a hand to the back of his neck, holding onto him. “He’s gotta be okay, Lip, he’s gotta be okay.” 

“Tami’s talking to them now. She’s gonna find out what’s goin’ on. He’s gonna be okay, man, he’s gonna be just fine.” 

Ian shuddered, holding his free hand over an eye. “I told him...I _told him_ not to. It’s not worth it. It’s not--”

“What’s not worth it? What did Mickey do, Ian?” Lip asked as calmly as he could. Ian sobbed, heaving in a shuddering breath that had him shaking under Lip’s touch. He was worried the kid was going to pass out again. 

“He got the papers,” he exhaled slowly, “to change his name.” He lifted his eyes to Lip’s, tear slipping down his cheeks unimpeded. “He wanted to be a Gallagher. Officially.” 

Ian openly wept when Lip pulled him into a tight hug, bringing him back to his feet and holding him as tightly as he could with their hands cuffed together. He just cried and cried and cried, and Lip was sure he hadn’t seen him this bad since they were little. He tried to shush him, to soothe him, but it wasn’t working. Nothing seemed to calm him. Not even when the cop came back over to try to get more out of him. 

“Back off, man, are you fucking blind?” Lip sneered, shielding Ian from his gaze. His brother only settled a little when Tami and Freddy came back. She looked furious but not panicked, so that was a good sign at least. “What’s up? How is he?” 

“Surgery should be done soon. Broken bones, some internal bleeding. Definitely a concussion. His ribs punctured his lung in three places, so they had to patch that up and stop the bleeding.” Ian sobbed again and she reached out for him. Lip nearly melted when Ian leaned into her touch. “He’s going to be okay, Ian. It’s a long recovery and a lot of bed rest, but he’s going to be just fine.” 

Ian croaked out something incomprehensible and threw his arms around Tami, forcing Lip along with him. He would’ve been annoyed but he was too damn relieved that Chicago would be experiencing a few less funerals that week.

Because there was no doubt in his mind that if Mickey _hadn’t_ been fine, then Terry Milkovich would have been dead by nightfall and Ian would be locked up.

So really, thank fucking god. 

*

Ian, Lip, and the cop set up shop in the OR waiting room. Ian had practically begged Tami to take Freddy home and let the others know what was going on, and Jamie fucked off to find real coffee for them and make phone calls. It may have surprised a lot of people, but most of the Milkoviches were pretty accepting of Mickey’s relationship with Ian. Friendly, even. They had poker nights and shit. It was just fucking Terry and whichever thug of the week he could scrounge up who had beef. It was so stupid. Ian wished the sack of shit would just fucking die already so they could live their lives together in peace. 

He was still handcuffed to Lip. Which was a smart move on their part because he’d watched Mickey break enough chairs to know how to do it. Coulda stabbed fucking Terry through the heart like the joy-sucking vampire he was. 

“Simmer down, killer,” Lip rumbled from where his face was propped up on his fist, eyes closed. 

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Yer foot’s bouncing like a motherfucker. Focus on Mickey, not him.” 

“I wanna hurt him, Lip. I want him to _suffer_. Bad.”

“I know.” Lip shifted so that his head was tilted back over the chair. “But Mickey needs his husband right now, not the psycho convict.” 

They were interrupted by the nurse calling out for Milkovich’s family. Ian was immediately out of his seat, Lip in his wake, and the cop not far behind. 

“I’m Mickey’s husband. Is he out? Can I see him?” 

The nurse smiled patiently. “We’re taking him to his room now. He’s just out of recovery, so he’ll be groggy.” 

Ian slumped, the smile on his face feeling strange. “That’s fine. Can we--?” 

The nurse led them back, not even bothering to question why he was handcuffed to someone else. Ian imagined she’d seen some crazy shit working a southside ER. They stopped at a door and Ian thrust his hand out to the cop, eyes blazing. No way in hell was he going in there handcuffed. Reluctantly, the cop silently agreed and took out the key to undo the restraints. Ian bolted into the room the second he was free. 

Mickey looked half dead. 

His skin was gray and pale, probably from all the blood loss. He was covered, but Ian could see the bulges where his bandages were. There was a clear, plastic bag on the chair, filled with ripped, bloodstained clothes. The cop picked it up before Ian could stop him. He shot the guy a glare and then was going to Mickey’s side, standing and gently stroking his face to wake him up. 

“Mickey?” he rasped. “Mick, wake up for me.” 

His cheek twitched and his eyelids blinked rapidly a few times. He tossed his head and turned to face Ian, eyes opening slowly. Ian’s heart nearly caved in at how out of it he looked. But his expression softened with a smile when recognition flared. 

“ _Eyyyy_ baby,” he managed to croak out. His voice was dry and weak and he coughed from the exertion. “Wha’ happen? Why’a upset?” 

Ian sobbed and dropped his forehead to Mickey’s, pressing kisses to the parts of him he could reach. 

“You’re in the hospital, Mickey. You just got out of surgery,” he told him quietly. Mickey blinked again and nodded. He didn’t need to explain why he was in the hospital or who was responsible. 

“F’kin’ Tommy,” Mickey mumbled, nuzzling up into Ian’s touches. 

“Tommy?” Lip echoed angrily. 

Mickey clicked his tongue irritably. “No’is fault. Said con-gradda-lay-shuns. Imma Gall-ger. Not a shiddy Mil-ka-veech.” Ian let out a weak chuckle at his slurred speech. The man had almost been murdered and he was still so damn cute. “Word musta got-out.” 

“No shit,” Lip said, sinking into a chair and dragging a hand through his hair. 

The cop stepped forward. “Mr. Milkovich, I’m going to need to get your statement on this incident.” 

“Incident?” Ian snapped.

Mickey’s brow furrowed and he half raised a hand, pointing a clear foot away from the cop. 

“Tha fuck are you?” he managed groggily. 

Ian took his hand protectively and stood to shield him. “Officer, he’s clearly in no condition--”

“Officerrr?” Mickey laughed. “Who called da cops, hm? Wazzit you Gall-ger?” Mickey snickered, clearly feeling the effects of the painkillers. 

“Look, at this point? I really just need him to give me names and tell me if he wants to press charges.”

“Charges?” Mickey scoffed. “I’ain no snitch!” He chuckled to himself and tugged on Ian’s hand, reassuring him that he absolutely wasn’t a snitch. Ian huffed a laugh and leaned to smack a kiss to his forehead. He turned and shrugged at the cop. 

“He’s too out of it. I don’t know what he wants to do. Just, leave me your card or whatever.” 

The cop reared back in surprise. “Seems like a no brainer. Any bastard that would do that to his own kid--”

“Yeah, spare me the speech, all right? We’re ex-cons. Talking to cops spooks him. So gimme your contact info and get out.” 

“Ian…” Lip started with a disappointed shake of his head. 

“It’s not my call,” Ian snapped back, silencing any further arguments. He looked back at the cop. “Goodbye.” He didn’t settle down again until the cop was gone for good. He grabbed a chair and hauled it next to Mickey’s bed, who had fallen asleep again while they were talking, which was for the best really. Ian decided to cut Lip off before he got started on the lecture.

“You should get home,” he said calmly, sighing as he relaxed into the chair. “Fill everybody in.”

“You sure?” Lip asked, getting up to drop a hand to his shoulder. He squeezed when Ian nodded, dropped a kiss to the top of his head, shook it gently. “Text if you need anything. We’ll come by tomorrow.” And then he left. 

Ian just sat there and stared at Mickey, watching. He was scared that if he blinked or fell asleep that he would disappear. Or something else would happen. He couldn’t stand it, so he stared. He didn’t have long to relax, though, because Jamie found him, bearing coffee and news from the Milkoviches. None of theirs were involved, just Terry. He’d recruited from some cartel he was working for. Ian groaned, hoping it wasn’t Mexicans, or he was never getting Mickey out of the house in a sane way again.

Jamie reassured him that everybody was keeping an eye out for Terry, and that Ian had their blessing to handle it however he wanted to handle it. They wouldn’t stand in his way, and there wouldn’t be any retaliation from their end. It was a pretty generous offer. 

“Thanks, Jamie,” he answered weakly. “I appreciate it.” 

Jamie clapped his shoulder. “Mick’s family. And we’re all sick of Terry’s shit. Think it’s high time the fucker learned his lesson.” 

“Yeah,” Ian croaked. “Maybe.” 

“Get some rest, man. Call you tomorrow.” 

With that, Ian finally got all the privacy he wanted. It was just him, Mickey’s steady breathing, and the beeping of his heart monitor. 

*

“ _The fuck!_ ” 

Ian jolted awake at the sound of his husband’s shrill shriek of outrage. He was on his feet, ready to fight, until he realized it was just a nurse checking his stitches. Ian groaned and dropped back into the chair, head in his hand. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, lifting his head to look at her and a panicked Mickey. “Fell asleep before I could tell you.” He waved a hand at Mickey. “Wakes up fightin’.” 

The nurse rolled her eyes at him and adjusted an incredulous Mickey’s gowns so that she could get to work. 

“Ain’t my first rodeo, kid,” she sneered. “Sides, we like a bit of fight in ‘em. Means they’re gettin’ stronger.” She went about her work quickly and efficiently, asking pertinent questions but not needlessly chit-chatting. Woman could certainly read a room. 

“Lookin’ good, Mr. Milkovich.” 

“Feels like shit,” he groused back, pulling down his gown. She moved to press the button for his pain killers and he smacked her hand away. “No more of that shit!” She pulled a face at him, ready to tear him a new one and Ian almost laughed as he chastened immediately. “Can’t afford it.” 

“Mick--”

“Shut it, Gallagher. You shoulda got me outta here the second I woke up.”

“Be reasonable--”

“Boy, you’re in no shape to shit let alone walk anywhere!” the nurse scolded him furiously. She wagged her finger at him. “You don’t have to take the pain meds, but you better shutcher damn mouth and do as you’re told until you’re stable enough to leave. Understand me?” 

Mickey slouched back with a hard eye roll. “Yes ma’am.”

“That’s right you do. And don’chu give your poor man a hard time, he’s been here all night in that damn chair fussin’ and worryin’ over your sorry hide while you were here sleepin’ like Miss Daisy!”

“I--!”

“Not another word unless you want me to knock you out again!” 

Mickey slammed his mouth shut, lips pursed tight. 

“Good,” the nurse turned to Ian with a sweet smile. “If you need anything, baby, you just come let us know.”

There was a knock at the door, and it was another nurse. Or an orderly. Ian didn’t really know.

“Cops were by again, we kicked ‘em out, but they’ll be back.” 

Ian offered him a thin smile. “Thanks. I’ll handle it.” 

They all exchanged assurances and then Ian was finally alone with an awake, sober Mickey. He went to shut the door, and then pulled his chair up so he could rest his arms and head on the bed. He let out a shuddering sigh when Mickey dropped a hand into his hair, scratching. He turned his face to Mickey. 

“Hi,” he whispered.

“Hey.” 

“You okay?” 

Mickey sniffed and nodded, settling back so he could be comfortable while he looked at Ian. His hand drifted to Ian’s face, thumb swiping gently at the corner of his eye. 

“I’m okay. Hurts like a bitch, but I’ll live.” He raised his brows. “If that lady don’t kill me.” Ian huffed a laugh through his nose, turning slightly to kiss at Mickey’s fingers. He wanted to get up and kiss him properly, but he was too nervous. Too scared to hurt him or mess something up. 

“He hurt you again,” Ian whispered sadly, face crumpling pathetically. He knew it looked bad just based on Mickey’s pained response to it. He hated seeing Ian upset. About anything. 

“Can’t guard me 24/7. Was gonna do it sometime.”

“I’m not arguing with you about this again. Not here. Not like this.” 

“ _Ian_ \--”

“No!” he snapped, getting to his feet. “I need you alive, not sticking it to your dad! I _need_ you!” He was about to pace, but Mickey lifted a hand out to him. 

“Okay, okay, c’mere--no, cut that shit out. Come. Here.” He flapped his hand until Ian obliged him and came back, taking his hand tight. Mickey lifted their hands so he could kiss the back of Ian’s. “I get that you were right about that asshole overreacting.” 

“ _Yes_.” 

“That’s on me. But I’m not letting him stop me from doing things I wanna do anymore. It didn’t stop me coming out, it didn’t stop me marrying you, and it’s not gonna stop me from taking your name.” 

Ian sighed heavily, looking away until Mickey tugged on his hand. 

“Come lay down with me?” he asked, putting out his lower lip in that pathetic yet very enticing way he knew Ian couldn’t ever resist. It was such a shithead move. 

“We are two grown men. We’re not gonna fit--”

“I don’t care, we’ll squeeze.”

“I might hurt you.” 

Mickey gestured broadly and vaguely. “ _This_ is hurting me!” 

Ian growled and nearly stamped his foot like a child. “ _Errrgha!_ Fine! Move over!” 

It actually was quite the production moving Mickey even an inch across the bed. He had to shuffle very carefully, and he winced almost the whole time. Ian fussed a lot, but eventually there was just enough space for him to slide into. It wasn’t totally comfortable either, but Ian felt so much better now that he could feel Mickey breathing. Wasn’t going to stop him from giving his husband shit, though.

“I thought we were over our extra long twin phase after prison,” he mumbled, nosing into his temple. 

“Just hold me this time so I don’t fall off, cause if I fall off...I’m probably gonna die.”

Ian sighed lightly. “Too soon.” 

“Nah,” Mickey intoned. “Nurse lady called my stitches beautiful.” 

“Mick...what are we gonna do about your dad?” 

Mickey moaned a bit, seemingly in discomfort. “Dunno.”

“Well you gotta know. Cause I can’t make the call, and the cops’ll come back--”

“Fuck the cops.”

“Usually I would agree,” Ian said, turning a little to put his hand on the base of Mickey’s throat, fingers lightly brushing his skin. “But he hurt you. _Again_ . He tried to kill you. _Again_.” Mickey brought his hand up to cover Ian’s, letting it rest there. 

“He’ll get 6 months for assault.”

“Or...he’ll get 10 to 15...for attempted murder.” 

Mickey let out a harried sigh. “I _have_ already snitched on a cartel.” 

“Yep.” 

“It’s not like my family would give a shit.”

“Nope.” 

“We would have to testify…”

“With pleasure,” Ian added. “All the Gallaghers will. Take the fucker down.” 

Mickey was quiet for a while, and Ian knew not to push it. Terry was a sensitive subject, and they had only scraped off the superficial scabs on top of the festering wounds he’d left in his son. Besides, Ian was on board for whatever Mickey wanted to do. Press charges, kidnapping and torture, homicide. All of those things were on the table and Ian had years of material to work from no matter what Mickey chose. 

“Kay.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Let the pigs have ‘im. He can go rot in some shithole and then we’re gonna burn down that fucking trash heap he calls a house.” 

“I was convicted of arson…” Ian pointed out.

“Iggy’ll do it. He owes me like...at least six years.”

“In jail?” 

“Sure. In jail. Let’s go with that.”

“I truly have no desire to know what happens when you and your brothers hang out.”

“That’s for the best.” 

*

They weren’t expecting much to come from the cops investigating. There was a chance Terry still had some cops on the take, so he could potentially weasel his way out of a charge. The guys they talked to were excited about making the arrest, though. Practically feral for it. Apparently arresting a Milkovich, especially Terry, was like a fucking rite of passage for these douchebags. Arresting him for a felony was icing on the very delicious cake. 

But they did make the arrest. And the charge did stick. And it was very, very public. Not because it was Terry, but because Gay Jesus’ husband got fag bashed by his own dad and was now getting him put away for attempted murder. 

_Gay Jesus Takes Down Notorious Chicago Homophobe_

_Gay Jesus’ Husband to Testify Against “Fag-Basher” Father_

_Homophobe Attacks Gay Jesus’ Husband--Taken Down by SWAT_

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey grumbled as he scrolled through the Twitter feed he’d been reading aloud to Ian. Ian, who was cackling while he made them eggs. 

“They’re not very good headlines,” Liam mused from across the table, sipping on his orange juice. “And Gay Jesus is loosely connected to the whole thing at best.”

Ian shrugged, spatula in hand, “People like to make things dramatic.” 

“It _is_ dramatic,” Liam scoffed. “Some dude tried to kill Mickey!” he shouted incredulously, tossing his hand in his brother-in-law’s direction. “Just because he tried to change his name to ours. Because you’re gay and married and he got mad about it! He was in the hospital for a week and he’s in a wheelchair! And it was his _dad_! How is that not dramatic enough for them?” 

Mickey tossed his phone on the table. “Don’t worry about it, kid. They wanted a story, so they found one. My dad’s locked up, no chance of bail, and they’re saying that I might not even have to testify. Apparently, they wanna make a deal with him. He confesses, rolls on this guy he’s doing runs for, and he’ll get a reduced sentence. Comfy digs.”

Liam’s face fell. “That’s not fair.”

He shrugged with his brows. “Them’s the breaks. American Justice at its finest.” 

Ian shot him a look over his shoulder as he plated up the eggs, toast, and bacon he’d made them. The doctor had finally cleared him for solid foods, and the wheelchair was just a precaution until they were certain his lungs and other tissues were fully healed up. No alcohol or cigarettes though, and Ian enforced that rule to the bitter fucking end. Mickey was decidedly not happy about it. 

They’d met with the prosecutor the afternoon before to talk about the case, what would happen, what they needed from the two of them. Ian had been ready to get on the stand and publicly tell everyone every shitty fucking thing Terry had done or said to the two of them. The lawyers shot him down, claiming that picture and video evidence would be more than enough to get a conviction. One of Terry’s buddies had taken a short video of Terry going at Mickey with a bat while four guys held onto him, and the cops had taken pictures of Mickey’s injuries when he agreed to move forward with charges. Between that and a signed statement from Mickey’s doctor and ER surgeon, there was no way Terry was getting off with less than 5 years. Not with all his priors. 

The lawyers were more interested in what kind of information they could get out of Terry. Not in making sure he paid for his crimes. 

Mickey tried not to take Ian’s disappointment to heart. It was a shit system that fucked over everybody. Thugs like him had relied on that system to play to the lowest common denominator so that he could get away with shit. He’d never expected them to play fair or own up to doing the right thing. At heart, his husband was still an optimist. That kid he’d met who wanted to believe the best in people and save everybody. Truth was, Mickey would have been fine letting it sit the way it was. Maybe if his dad thought he was beat down, he’d finally leave them alone. But Mickey was a sucker for those green puppy dog eyes. 

Ian set their plates down and settled next to him, and Mickey reached out his hand to cover his. Ian answered by leaning over to kiss his temple. Liam grimaced but didn’t say anything. He’d learned his lesson when Mickey dumped a beer on him for whining about their PDA, the last time. 

“You take your meds?” Ian asked casually, clearly trying to seem like he wasn’t fussing.

“Yes,” Mickey answered slowly.

“Clean your incisions?”

“Yes.”

“Did you use that salve I got you? It’s supposed to help with the scarring.” 

“Yes, Ian, I used it.” 

“What about your breathing treatment?”

“Fucking _christ_!” 

“The doctor said the worst thing you could do right now is get an infection. Your tissues are still healing.”

“I did it. Earlier. After my shower. Just like you told me.” 

“Good.” He paused, spinning his fork between his fingers. “Does it hurt?” 

Mickey exhaled slowly and glared at him. “ _No_.”

“We could--”

“No.”

“I have--”

“No! Ian. No. We’re not shelling out cash for fucking pain pills. It’s fine. I’m fi--fuck,” he grabbed his side, knowing his face was scrunched up in pain and that Ian would freak out about it. He took a couple of slow breaths and let the pain fade. He wasn’t supposed to get overexcited like that. Put pressure on shit or something. He couldn’t even _laugh_ too hard. 

When he looked up, Ian was rubbing his forehead, and Mickey could tell he was trying not to cry. He reached out his hand again and clenched Ian’s tight in his own. Ian bent to kiss it. 

“I could get a job,” Liam offered suddenly. He was stiff and wide-eyed, watching them anxiously. “There’s plenty of places looking. I could take the bus after school.” 

“Fuck that kid,” Mickey sighed. “You’re focusing on school and going to college and getting the fuck outta here.” 

“It wouldn’t be--”

“No,” Mickey repeated forcefully. “You ain’t sacrificing shit for me. You’re the kid, I’m the adult. I sacrifice for you. Got it?” 

Liam slumped, looking torn between sad and relieved. “Got it.” 

“Good, now fuck off to school so I can fight with your brother some more.” 

Liam gave them a lop-sided smile, but rolled his eyes and grabbed his bag before he headed out the door. He would be turning thirteen soon and they could hardly believe that was even a thing. 

“Thank you,” Ian whispered as soon as he was gone. 

“Wish somebody woulda done it for me. He deserves a choice.” Ian just rubbed a thumb over the back of his hand, probably remembering everything. Mickey hadn’t gone to school much after third grade because he was making deals and acting as a lookout on runs. Apparently, he’d stood in as collateral for a deal when he was 10 years old, and he was almost collateral _damage_ on more than one occasion. School had never been an option for Mickey, even if he’d wanted it to be. He just never got the chance to find out. 

After they got married, Lip moved into his own place with Tami and Freddy, and Debbie took Franny to move in with Sandy after she was released. So, it was just them, Carl, and Liam. Which wasn’t too bad. Carl was keeping his nose clean, working hard, doing all right. But Ian and Mickey decided pretty quick that Liam needed more tending to. He was trying to grow up too fast and was way too used to doing things on his own. Now he had a set schedule and curfew, a limit to chores, an allowance, fucking... _rules_ . For being a decent person and not shit like, don't talk to the cops or don't leave the house without the appropriate weapon. He was a good kid anyway, they just wanted him to _be_ a kid for a little longer. They weren't exactly the best examples for it, but maybe there would be one Gallagher without a substance abuse issue. 

"I'm not done talking about painkillers though."

Mickey groaned. Or maybe not.

"I don't know what else there is to talk about! The ibuprofen helps--"

"During the day," Ian finished. "You wake up in the middle of the night and you're not getting enough sleep and you're in pain. I hate it."

"Well...tough shit," he answered weakly. Ian leaned across the corner of the table, and pressed a long, smoochy kiss to his cheek. Mickey scrunched his face but didn't pull away. 

"Please?" Ian mumbled. "Please, please, please?"

_Fuck_.

"Fine!" He swatted him away. "Fucking--stop that. _Quit_." He pushed Ian back into his seat and jabbed a finger at him. "Nothing crazy. Find somebody normal. Take it out of my stash. And don't call--"

"I'm texting Iggy," Ian interrupted, already on his phone. 

"I will shoot you."

But Ian didn't even look up, didn’t miss a beat. "You can't reach the gun from your chair. Iggy can be here in 5 by the way."

"I fucking hate you right now."

"Too bad you married me. Hey, look over here." Mickey scowled and Ian took a picture. "Sweet. Ig said he'd give me a 20% discount to see your face right now. Apparently he won a bet."

"Oh fuck them."

"Oh. I guess it's a parley. He just got the first one."

"Motherfuckers."

Ian just cheesed at him and booped his nose before he got up to do the dishes. 

Iggy was there in 5 minutes as promised. He was pretty cleaned up actually. Compared to usual. Mickey was in the living room now, in his wheelchair with his legs propped up on the coffee table. He came in with barely a knock, a weird metal case in hand, and stupid look on his face.

"Get the fuck outta my house Iggy," he grumbled, tossing a magazine at him. He dodged it easily. Iggy tossed a finger at him and set his case down.

"Fuck you baby brother! The _man_ of the house invited me."

"Mickey, if you throw that shoe, I'm gonna make you eat it," Ian said easily, walking into the room with a couple of beers and a soda. He put them on the coffee table. "Hey Ig!"

"Brother in law!" he crooned back as they hugged. Mickey tried to reach for a beer.

"I'm gonna hurl."

"You touch that beer and I'm not touching your dick for a week!" Ian snapped. Mickey froze and then inched his hand over to get the soda. "Good choice." Iggy snickered but Mickey really didn't give a shit. He liked cock, he liked having his touched. It checked out. 

Ian clapped his hands together. "So, whatcha bring us?"

He waggled his brows. "Only the best for baby brother!" He turned to Mickey. "Ya look like shit, by the way, Dad gotcha good didn't he?"

"Yeah, sure. _He_ got me. After he got four other assholes to hold me down first."

"Yes, my muffin's a tough guy," Ian cooed, chucking under his chin. Mickey smacked his hand away with a scowl, but didn't mind their teasing so much anymore. Especially not when Ian looked at him like that.

“Hold still,” Iggy said pulling out his phone to take a picture. Ian moved in to kiss Mickey’s cheek, causing Iggy to cackle at the bitch face his brother pulled. “Got it. Gonna send that to Mandy,” he told them, his fingers moving rapidly over the screen. “Gotta have proof of life to win the parley.” He winked over at Ian. “Think you can hold out on killin’ him for another week?” 

"All right, asshole, what's in there?"

"What do you need?" He opened his case to show off his range of supplies from pills to patches, to syringes to powders. Neatly labeled and color-coded. 

"The fuck Iggy?"

He shrugged innocently. "Organization gets the ladies goin'," he explained. "And a little professionalism goes a long way with my clients with a more sophisticated palate."

"How sophisticated can their palates be if they numb the shit outta themselves?" Mickey mused darkly. Ian swatted at his leg.

"Be nice. We need something mild. Nothing he's gonna get addicted to in a hurry but looks legit on a drug screen."

"Fast-acting or long-lasting?"

"Whatever will keep him asleep at night."

"Patch or pill?"

"Got anything powdered?" 

"Not without limp dick side effects."

" _Jesus_. Just no fucking needles, all right?"

"Gotcha. Morphine. Oral. Start with 10 mg before bed. With food. Call me if you need to up the dose." He held out a hand to Ian. "Fifty, please."

"Bullshit!" Mickey argued immediately. "Family discount!"

"Your niece's preschool is costing me a fortune. Lick a dick, asshole!"

"I already do, dumbshit! With gusto!"

Ian reached out a hand to Mickey's thigh while passing over the cash.

"Mick, we already agreed to fifty."

" _Already_ ! The fuck you mean _already_?”

"Oh shit," Iggy muttered. "The queen has entered. I'm _out_."

Mickey did throw that shoe at him.

"Babe…"

"You talked to him before today?" Mickey asked, betrayed. Ian slid the pills into his pocket. 

"Yes. Because I was gonna talk you into it or die trying." Mickey pulled a face, ready to roll out to the kitchen. Ian cut him off, putting his hands to the arms and leaning in.

"Money is not that tight, and even if it was, it's worth it to make sure you're comfortable and healing right." Mickey kept his eyes in Ian, not flinching away even though he always had in the past. He was serious about this, and not about to let it go. Mickey was pretty sure if he kept fighting it, Ian was going to start lacing his sodas. And Ian would know to use soda cause the sugar masks the bitter taste and he was a sneaky bastard. 

"Means that much to you?"

Ian pulled a face. "Yes. And this stuff only takes a couple of days to leave your system while weed takes longer. You can’t smoke it anyway and you hate edibles.”

“I don’t get why we have to mess with chocolate…” Mickey mumbled defensively.

“They'll drug screen you for disability and when you go back to work. You don't even have to take it every night, just when it's bad." He hung his head a little. "I can't take watching you be in pain any more than I have to. I need to know you're sleeping at least. _At least._ "

Mickey reached up to tug him down for a very thorough kiss. He pouted a little when Ian white-knuckled the arms of his chair to resist the escalation. 

"This is such bullshit," Mickey rasped. "How much longer?"

Ian pecked at his lips a few times first. "Your check-up is in 2 weeks." 

Mickey groaned and tilted his head back, whining. "I'm gonna die." Ian peppered kisses on his face and neck.

"You," kiss, "will," kiss, "be fine." And then he caught Mickey's lips for a longer kiss. But not nearly long enough. Left him sitting there too, injured and blue balls. Fucking shit.

*

At the check-up Mickey's doctor cleared him for physical therapy and breathing exercises. Ian was relieved he was recovering. Mickey was just fucking happy to be out of the wheelchair. He couldn't smoke anymore. Doctors never recommended smoking, but he made a specific point that it could cause a collapse. Which.. _fuck_. 

"Mild physical activity. Lost of rest and fluids," he said flatly.

"Answer the real question: can we fuck?"

Ian swatted his shoulder with the back of his hand and hissed a few choice words at him.

" _Ye-ah_ just...go easy. Don't...overdo? It?"

Mickey dropped his face into his hands. "Thank _god_."

"How's your pain?"

He shot a dubious look at Ian. "Manageable."

"You should start weaning off any painkillers in the next couple of weeks. The longer you take them, the weaker the effect."

"I take something before bed. That's it."

"Good." He handed over the packet for the physical therapy referral. Bypassing Mickey despite his reach, and giving it to Ian. Mickey flipped him off.

"Can't sex be my PT?"

"Absolutely not," he answered absently, focusing his attention on Ian instead. "Ask for Gina, she works wonders on whiny pissbabies."

"Fuck you Doc McStuffins!"

His doctor turned to walk backward and flipped him off behind his clipboard. Ian snorted. 

"Well...He's got you pegged."

Mickey moaned as he stood to stretch, gingerly reaching his arms over his head while Ian watched, heart in his throat. Mickey didn't push it, just lowered his arms and beckoned him over with a wave. Ian's shoulders slumped and he lunged forward to kiss him and offer up his arm. Mickey was refusing a cane. Said Ian could be his body support. And he meant it too. 

They walked arm in arm, largely ignoring any catcalling in their own neighborhood. On their block, it was mostly teasing anyway. People were just too used to them together. They day would have been fucking fantastic if they hadn't come home to find a couple of cops and the prosecutor hanging out in front of their gate.

"What? Need a security detail for this neighborhood yer honor?" Mickey intoned, leaning more heavily into Ian.

"That's what you call judges," Ian offered unhelpfully. But Mickey could tell he was just as on edge.

"Yeah, yeah. What do you want?" Mickey growled out, letting Ian open the gate and usher him through. The prosecutor kicked at some gravel and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"It's about your father."

"Lemme guess? Dropping all charges? Gonna give 'im the key to the city?"

"He's dead, Mickey. They found him this morning."

Mickey's brain froze. He just stopped listening.

*

Ian could see it. He could see the second Mickey shut down. So much of his life had been thrown into the cold light of day, but at heart, he was private. He suffered quietly. Behind closed doors. He didn’t share his feelings with people if they didn’t include anger. And god help you if there was nowhere for him to hide. 

Ian swung back to Sam Parsons, the prosecutor assigned to their case. Mickey didn't like him, but he reminded Ian a lot of Lip.

"What happened?"

"We're still trying to untangle that. Looks like it was a hit, but no one's claiming it. Which is odd."

"What they do to him?"

Parsons offered him a rueful grin. "Clean kill. Stabbed three times in the kidney. Bled out in some service hall. Guards went looking when he didn't show for work detail."

Mickey sniffed loudly, not making eye contact.

"Yeah, thanks, man."

Parsons braced his hands on the fence. "We could still go after the men who helped him."

Ian had more questions, but Mickey was done, already tugging at him to go inside. He didn't pause even when Parsons called out to him.

"Good to see you up, Mickey!"

Ian shut the door on them and paused, watching as Mickey slowly made his way to the stairs.

"Where ya goin?"

"Shower."

And that was it. Ian gave him a few minutes. Let him go up by himself. Just a little bit of space. A small victory and sense of control before reality hit. He waited, leaning against the wall, at the bottom of the stairs, until he heard the water turn on. Only then did he take the stairs two at a time and shuck off his shirt before he even got through the bathroom door. 

He slid into the shower behind his husband, who didn't even turn around as he soaped up.

"A little clingy there, Gallagher."

Ian sidled forward and wrapped his arms around Mickey's waist, dropping his nose into his neck.

"Whatever you say, Gallagher," Ian teased back, pressing opening mouth kisses to his neck and ear. Mickey pressed his body back into his, not bothering to hide his response. They were practically sex-starved, and handjobs in the bathroom had become the extent of what they could do. It took the edge off, but Ian missed sex with his husband.

This wasn't about sex though. Ian took the washcloth from him and continued his work, lathering him up properly, careful around his incision sites and on the sides where his ribs were still bruised. He wanted to sink to his knees and kiss every inch of that precious torso. He wanted to thank every bone and organ for not failing them, for stitching themselves back together despite Terry's best efforts. But this wasn't about him. He tossed the washcloth and opened up his arms so Mickey could step between them, and he could wrap him up. Mickey went easily, nuzzling against his collar bone.

"Tell me what's going on in that head of yours," he muttered into his hair. He pressed kisses down the side of his face.

"Nuthin."

" _Baby_ \--"

"I mean I don't feel anything," Mickey clarified, pulling back to look up at him. Ian swept a hand up his back to cup his head. Mickey just looked distraught, his eyes wide and sad. "The bastard's finally dead and I'm not even happy. I ain't sad but I sure don't feel happy either," he grumbled, dropping his forehead to Ian's shoulder. Ian took the opportunity to shampoo his hair and think. Mickey moaned at the attention, fingers clenching into Ian's skin. Ian edged him back so that he could wash it out. He tipped Mickey's head back, threading his fingers through his dark locks to help it along.

"I don't think you need to feel anything about it," Ian mused, bringing his face back to cup it. He had water drops on his eyelashes and Ian dipped forward to kiss his warm cheek, tasting the water there too. He brushed his nose against the top of his ear. "It's a lot. Just tell me what you need."

"Jus' you," he answered meekly. Ian kissed his head again, unable to stop himself from the compulsion to lavish affection on his husband. 

"You got me. Anything you want."

Ian got him out of the shower and wrapped up in a clean towel. Carl had taken to doing laundry regularly, which was nice. Mickey didn't need help getting pants on, but he was still stiff when he lifted his arms, so Ian helped him with his shirt. Ian pulled on his boxers, watching as Mickey climbed into bed and stayed there. Ian ignored the rest of his clothes and followed him, gently curling his body around Mickey's back, careful not to put too much weight on him. A month later and he was still so nervous that Mickey would break. He'd never seen him like that before, and he wasn't going to forget it anytime soon. Mickey turned in Ian's arms so they were face to face, and tucked his face under Ian's chin. Ian just stroked his back. 

Ian drifted off to sleep after he knew Mickey was out. And he was so warm and content that he could almost ignore everything else. But there was a light knock on the door, and Carl ducked his head in.

"Clothes," he whispered, "thank fuck. I'm gonna go get Liam then go to work. Whatcha want for dinner?"

"Just make sure Liam eats," Ian whispered back. "I'll make us something later."

Carl jerked his chin. "What's up with him?"

"Terry's dead."

" _Shit_." Carl seemed to process that. "I mean, good fucking riddance, but too bad Mick didn't get to shoot him first."

"Yeah."

"Text if you need anything, yeah?"

Ian nodded and didn't check if Carl noticed. He just tucked his face back into Mickey, and let himself fall asleep. Before he was out, he heard Mickey's soft _I love you_ whispered between them. They could rest all they liked. There was nobody left to disturb them this time. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Mickey decided to change his name

Being married wasn’t hard at all.

People said it changed things, made everything different, locked you in or some shit. But given everything he and Ian had been over the years, different and locked in was just peachy. Other than Debbie getting her ass thrown in jail on some bullshit charge, and having to take guardianship of her rugrat, nothing much had changed for them. 

Mickey didn’t realize that, though, until they were out at the Alibi one night, meeting up with some of Ian’s co-workers. Vee had offered to take Franny so they could have a night off, and Ian was itching to get out. Mickey had always been more of a homebody, but Ian was chomping at the bit. Made Mickey wonder if he ever missed the club scene. If he was getting bored now. Unfortunately, such thoughts made Mickey snappish and mean. Not that Ian ever took that seriously anyway.

“Seriously, where’s the fucking fire?” he practically snarled when Ian bitched at him to hurry up for the seventh fucking time. Ian shook his shoulders and whined like some bratty kid.

“I’m excited, let’s gooo.”

“Can I put a shirt on? Is that all right with you?”

“No,” Ian answered back, ignoring his shittiness, “I’d rather have you naked, but I do realize it’s cold outside.” 

“ _Ian_ ,” he gritted between his teeth. His husband held his hands up in defeat, spun on his heel, and left him to it. Mickey put his shirt on so forcefully that he could have ripped it. For fuck’s sake, they were going to the Alibi. It was not that deep. 

Thankfully, Ian didn’t say anything when he finally went downstairs, prolonging his routine out of sheer spite. He just kissed his face and dragged him out the door, practically skipping. 

He was no better once they actually got to the bar, either. He bounced around, still dragging Mickey along, so that he could say hi to people. His hellos were surprisingly quick, though, and soon enough they were at the bar in front of Kev. Ian cut him off before he could beg for respite.

“Heya Kev! A shot of Jack and a beer, and a not-a-beer for me,” he said with a little too much enthusiasm. “And make it snappy before Mickey starts throwing punches.” 

Kev snorted, “Hello to you too. Mick. Not down to clown tonight?” he teased. Motherfuck--

“Oh fuck off,” Ian interrupted, sliding his arm around Mickey’s neck, letting him lean in like he wanted to. “Give ‘im a sec to simmer.”

Mickey all but snatched the shot off the bar and downed it before Kev could take another potshot at him.

“Don’t call me a clown, you jolly green giant or I’ll---”

“Rip the tongue outta my head,” Kev finished calmly. “I know the drill. Got some new friends, Ian?” 

“Co-workers. It’s somebody’s birthday, thought we could all meet up.” 

“Whatever, they’re buying the good stuff, so keep ‘em comin’.” 

Mickey was about to snap something at him about mooching off Ian, when Ian tugged him back and away, handing him his beer as he went. 

“Down boy,” he muttered before looking back at Kev. “We’re gonna go make nice, catch ya later.”

Ian steered them in the direction of their usual booth, nudging at him so they were on the same side, Mickey safely blocked by the wall. Ian’s arm snaked back around his neck as he leaned in to kiss his temple. 

“You good?” he said quietly against his skin. Mickey nodded and relaxed into his hold. They didn’t have long, though, before Ian’s co-workers were coming over, sliding into seats across from them and pulling chairs up. 

Mickey tried to remember some of their names, but didn’t think it was worth it, really. He sat quietly, nursing his beer and let Ian do his thing. They were a mix of men and women, some older, some pretty young. They all worked in the same office where Ian was the receptionist, so they had stories and inside jokes to share. It was a short term gig for Ian to build some credibility and give his PO a chance to figure out how to get him working as an EMT again. Mickey was more than happy to go unnoticed, especially since Ian kept physical contact. He kept their shoulders together, held his hand, put a hand to his thigh. Anybody else might have said he was possessive or jealous. Mickey knew Ian just liked to feel grounded. After years of being uncertain how Mickey would react to any kind of affection, Ian soaked it up like a goddamn sponge now. 

“So Mickey,” one of them said. Mike, Mark, maybe Joe? He honestly didn’t give a shit. “What kind of…” Mickey didn’t miss the way his eyes dropped down to his hands. His fingers. His tattoos. He felt his eyebrows inching up. People weren’t fucking subtle. “...work, do you do?” 

“Security,” he answered as calmly as he could. “Used to do malls, now I’m with an event company.” 

“No shit?” the guy answered with a shrug. “Guess that makes sense.” He must have read Mickey’s immediate reaction to that. “ _Whoa_ , what did I say?” 

Ian’s hand came up to grab Mickey’s, pulling it down between them. Probably to keep him from lashing out as much as anything else. 

“Probably should clarify your comment, Patrick,” Ian offered. Patrick. Right. The guy’s eyes widened in horror. 

“Oh shit, no, sorry. I just mean people are dicks and don’t wanna hire ex-cons, you know? Like your boy here could be running the company but they got him stuck in reception and I can only get work as a maintenance guy. Don’t even read your sheet, just assume you’re bad news.” 

Mickey immediately settled under his sheepishness and noticed all the smirks and quiet laughter at Patrick’s expense. He rolled his neck out, letting the tension go, appeased when Ian kissed his temple again. Patrick held up a hand.

“Didn’t mean to sound like a dick. My bad.” 

“We’re good,” Mickey answered quietly, taking a pull from his beer. “And that sucks for you, but I _am_ bad news.” 

“He was a troubled youth.” 

“I helped run a cartel.” 

“He’s reformed.” 

“I knocked over a meth lab to pay for our wedding.” 

“Sometimes he’s so different, I hardly recognize him in the morning.” 

His co-workers were laughing now. Probably thought Mickey was joking or some shit. He was not, but Ian was smiling anyway, so he didn’t care too much about it. They all seemed to simmer down a little after that. Except for one chick. She was sat at the end of the table, in a chair pulled up to the far corner. Kept watching him like she had shit under her nose. Mickey felt his hackle rising again.

Ian sighed, “Wouldn’t recommend staring at him, Hannah.”

She flinched, drawing attention from the others. “Sorry,” she said, picking up her drink defensively. “Just not what I expected.” 

“What a fantastically shitty thing to say, Han,” someone else, thankfully, piped in. 

“What?” she squawked indignantly. “Ian talks about him like he’s a puppy! He’s got knuckle tats! But _fuck me_ for being confused.” 

“A _puppy_ ?” Mickey sneered even as Ian ruffled his hair and cooed, “He _is_ a puppy.” Irritably, Mickey smacked his hand away, earning him a laugh and Ian grappling for a cheek kiss.

“Oh fuck _off_ ,” he groused, even though he stopped struggling and let Ian have his way. A few of the women cooed at them, which had Ian beaming and Mickey sulking. One of the guys, though, wagged a finger between the two of them.

“This is sickeningly cute. I didn’t come here for cute. Tell me a story about Mexico. Ian said you were there for a bit--”

“ _Derek_ ,” the women complained, shoving at him. 

“Are the women hot?” He frowned. “Shit, like you’re paying attention.” He snapped his fingers. “Got any pictures?” Mickey stared at this Derek guy in sheer disbelief. He was having trouble processing the amount of stupid coming out of his mouth when Ian snorted.

“It wasn’t exactly a vacation,” he informed them. Mickey backhanded his chest.

“Stop telling people my business.”

“I’m not telling people your business. Someone talked about a spring break---vacation in Mexico and I mentioned _one time_ that you lived in Mexico for a while.” 

“Still.” 

“Excuse my grouchy husband, he’s a little paranoid.” Mickey pulled a face at him. “Yes, it’s still paranoid if you think North siders who don’t live in this neighborhood can get the word out.” He shoved a plate of nachos at him. “Hush and eat.” Mickey grumbled about bossy know it alls, but ate them anyway. Not because he was told to, but because he was actually hungry. 

It was another hour and a few more beers for Mickey later when they addressed him again. Thankfully, Ian had only stolen a few sips of Mickey’s beers otherwise the question would have been a shit show. It was Hannah, the flabbergasted accountant, who raised her brow at Mickey again. 

“How,” she started, wagging her beer bottle between them, “did you two meet anyway?” 

Naturally, Mickey froze up again. He wasn’t used to all these personal questions. Ian snorted and rubbed his back.

“Mick’s not used to people asking him questions unless he’s getting arrested” he explained dutifully, making Mickey relax again. Leave it to Ian to pinpoint the problem without being asked. “We both grew up in the neighborhood. He lived like four streets over. Went to the same schools, yadda yadda.” Hannah nodded, like she accepted this watered down answer.

“So childhood sweethearts?”

Mickey’s beer came right out his nose. Everybody rushed to help, clean up, while Ian, the motherfucker, chuckled and patted his back. 

“Jesus fuck, Han, he just _said_ \--”

“Why are you the nosiest person in the world?”

“It’s not nosy! That’s a normal question to ask people!” 

Ian’s co-workers bickered among themselves as Mickey got his breath back. His husband was _still_ laughing at him, but at least he wasn’t upset. Mickey, himself, wasn’t even that upset, it just caught him off guard. _Childhood sweethearts_ . What the ever loving fuck? Who said that shit? Other than Debbie, actually. But she watched those garbage dating shows, so that checked out. They weren’t _sweethearts_ . Sweethearts didn’t pull the shit they had pulled, they didn’t beat each other bloody or go to jail for each other, or get attacked by homophobic assholes. _Sweethearts_ didn’t have their wedding venue burned down or their honeymoon suite shot up. And they certainly didn’t have hooker ex-wives and pedophile ex-boyfriends in their rearview. 

Ian turned to whisper in his ear, “Which part got ya? Childhood or sweethearts?”

Mickey pinched him lightly, brow arched high. “Both?” His husband smirked. The others had tuned back in, apologizing for Hannah. Mickey waved off their concerns, clearing his throat. “S’fine. S’fine. Seriously.” He looked over at the woman in question and answered the only way he could think of without traumatizing her. She looked pretty young. Well, younger than Ian anyway.

“It’s complicated.”

She wrinkled her nose and opened her mouth to follow up, but somebody smacked her shoulder. 

“Hannah! Shut up!” 

“But!” 

Ian covered Mickey’s hand with his own and leaned forward. 

“We were together off and on since I was fifteen--”

“You--”

“Were young and had some...issues...We got back together officially three years ago.” 

“Broke up again,” Mickey muttered, sipping his beer.

“And got married eight months ago,” Ian finished with a laugh, nudging into him sharply in retaliation. 

“Who popped the question?” another one of them asked. At Mickey’s wince, all of them groaned again. 

“God damn it, Becky,” Derek whined. “Stop asking questions!”

“I’m so curious, though! It’s so intriguing. Look at them,” she said with a weird expression on her face. “How can you not have questions?”

“A person can have questions without blabbing them out all over the place,” Patrick grumbled. Mickey lifted his bottle to clink it with his in solidarity. 

“I asked…” Ian answered. “Let’s just...leave it at that.” 

Mickey rounded on him, incredulously. “Oh, so we can talk about my shit but not about your shit?”

“Ooooh,” Hannah bounced in her seat, “ _drama_.” 

Ian jutted his jaw to the side, nodding and fighting off a smile as Mickey stared him down. Fuck him if he thought he could toss his husband into the fire without getting burned himself.

“Okay,” he said nodding, “Okay, okay.” Mickey felt warm arousal swirl in his gut under that gaze. A challenge always got them going. Hell, half of their relationship was one daring the other to take it to the next level. Ian turned back to his co-workers, Mickey kept his eyes fixed on Ian.

“Yeah, so I proposed and we got to the courthouse and I got...spooked.”

“ _Spooked_?” Mickey spluttered out. Ian turned his bright, still very entertained, eyes on him, brows lifted up high and trying not to smile.

“ _Yes_ ,” he bit out. “Spooked.” 

“Oh shit,” Derek laughed. “You left him at the altar?” 

“It was a courthouse--”

“ _Damn_ that’s cold.”

“Mickey, I take it back, you’re too good for him.” 

“Thank you!” Mickey said, gesturing to Hannah. “See? You’re a dick.” 

Ian’s smile was softer now, knowing that he was being teased but not angry about it. Mickey had put up with so much from him over the years. So complaining about one thing was not going to set Ian off in any way. 

“Yes, yes, I’m the dick. I get it. But I made it up to you, didn’t I?” he asked, leaning into him, gazes locked on each other. Mickey tried not to succumb and smile, but it was hard. And he was pretty sure his eyes were giving him away anyway. _Heart eyes_ , is what Sandy called it. Mickey never even knew he was doing it. But, then again, that’s why he’d always been so careful when they were kids. For all that it helped. 

“Eventually,” he conceded, drinking from his beer again. Ian snatched it to take a pull, only for Mickey to swipe it back, the chastisement clear. Ian spat his tongue out at him. 

“Weird and adorable,” Derek mused, watching them warily. “So fucking weird. So fucking adorable. I’m gonna puke.” 

“Do it somewhere else,” Mickey snapped. “This shirt’s new.” 

That had them all laughing and settling in more comfortably. They focused on the others’ relationships. Becky was married, Hannah had a boyfriend, Patrick was married, and the others were in relationships of varying degrees. The women insisted on giving relationship advice, asking Ian for back up. He participated reluctantly, but Mickey kept his mouth shut on that front. Nobody needed relationship advice from a Milkovich. Least of all these, North siders with normal 9-5 lives and cozy lifestyles. When Ian had gotten clingy, Mickey beat the shit out of them. When they were moving from hookup to relationship, Mickey got himself arrested to avoid it. The only reason marriage came up at all was because Ian thought he’d killed his parole officer. 

Not that Ian didn’t think about a normal, apple pie kinda life. Quietly. When no one was looking too hard at him. After their wedding, he’d dropped infrequent hints about wanting kids still. Hints, Mickey thought with a scoff. Ian was the furthest thing from subtle, especially when he wanted something. Their whole relationship was evidence of that. Mickey was coming around to the idea slowly. He talked to Lana and Yev on the phone occasionally, planned visits, but he wasn’t really a part of their lives anymore. He was more like an uncle to his own son. But with Ian...it could be different. He’d even talked to Larry about it a little, what the process would be like, what the chances were anybody would even think about giving two ex-cons a kid to raise. You know, legally and shit. They weren’t _great_ , but maybe in a few years if they kept out of trouble, got some good references….

“Mick?” 

He turned to see Ian looking at him. The others looked like they were getting up to leave. Must have zoned out.

“You ready?” 

Mickey let out a long exhale.

“Whenever you are.”

*

On the walk home, Mickey was quiet. Too quiet. Ian knew the difference, had known for a long time the shades of Mickey’s silences.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” Ian asked, playfully nudging into him, hoping his irritation had worn off. Mickey responded immediately, shooting him a lopsided grin and nudging back. See? Success. He was no longer in the fantastically shitty mood he’d sported before they left for the bar. 

“Prison,” his husband answered truthfully, and much too casually. Ian groaned.

“Reminiscing about or planning for?” he snarked, if only to hide the panic that statement caused. Mickey must have spotted his anxiety because he leaned into Ian’s side and took up his hand. They didn’t often hold hands when they walked together. Ian usually just slung an arm around his shoulders to keep contact. But when they did hold hands, Mickey always initiated. Worked better and faster than Xanax, at any rate. 

“Was thinking about those first few months,” Mickey answered quietly, effectively soothing away the stress. Ian scoffed.

“All I remember is a blur of sex and shitty food. What do _you_ remember?” 

But Mickey only shrugged. It was a bit of an exaggeration, actually. Ian remembered a lot about prison life with his husband. He remembered Mickey taking care of him, of them together as a couple. He remembered Mickey throwing his name around to get people to back off. He remembered that he took the surplus of money from Ian’s Gay Jesus fans and put it to good use. Brand name meds, extra pillows, privacy during rec time, a cushy job for Ian in the clinic where he didn’t have to interact with the worst of the worst inmates, a phone to video chat with his brother and nephew, brand name lube stocked in the commissary store (right up until that debacle with another inmate squeezing some in a guard’s eyes during a fight, which led to the whole mayo thing). Mickey had ruled their prison roost with an iron fist, and Ian was well aware that his time inside had been peachy keen compared to most. 

Ian also knew that the whole situation had been stressful as fuck for Mickey. While he liked having eyes on Ian 24/7, and having a little more control over their relationship than was strictly healthy, Mickey had been on high alert every waking second waiting for somebody to test him. Waiting for someone to look at Ian the wrong way. Waiting for Ian to lose his shit and make life just a little more complicated. He’d talked about it some, after the wedding, but Ian was well aware that he didn’t know every detail of what had happened during their prison time. Mickey had treated their simultaneous incarceration as a job, and he did whatever was necessary to get that job done. 

Sometimes it was just best to go at Mickey’s pace, and let him talk when he wanted to.

“Larry asked me why I haven’t taken your last name yet,” Mickey confessed blandly after a few quiet minutes. Ian knew he wasn't talking about just calling himself Gallagher. Plenty of people did that. Just told people their married name instead of going through all the paperwork and red tape that came with it. But they had gone legit now. Law-abiding citizens with jobs and insurance and legal guardianship of 2 minors. Mickey wasn't talking about a fake id with his new name and new address printed on it. He was talking legally. Like, turn in your social security card and marriage license, and file a form type of legal. Just like their wedding. Which had resulted in fire and gunshots. 

“Did you tell him what I said?”

“Yeah, and he agrees with _me_ ,” Mickey shot back with feigned smugness. 

There was absolutely nothing funny about this argument. It was an old one. Started the day of their wedding, continued after their honeymoon suite was shot up, and squashed by Ian every time it had been brought up since. 

“ _Yeah_ well, Larry traded you to that psycho-bitch for some shitty pasta, so he can go fuck himself,” Ian grumbled under his breath. Another old argument. When Mickey was reassigned to Larry, Ian said he ought to ask for a transfer, but Mickey didn’t see the point. 

“It’s just a name, Ian,” Mickey answered, sounding miserably small.

“Not to him it isn’t,” he shot back, jerking his hand away this time. “I told you, I’m not letting him leave another mark on you for me to patch up. Fuck that.” 

Things had quieted down a bit after their hotel room was shot up. Terry had made his point loud and clear. It put them all on edge for a while, but nothing had happened since then. Mickey figured his old man was just satisfying his ego, got the last word in, and was done with them. Ian didn’t want to poke the bear over nothing. And changing their names was _nothing_.

Mickey obviously didn’t see it that way, otherwise they wouldn’t still be having this conversation. 

“Hey,” Mickey jerked him back by the crook of his elbow, effectively stopping them on the sidewalk, brows furrowed deep and irritated. “You are not responsible for every damn time he’s tried to fuck me up, all right?” Ian twisted his head away, trying to avoid eye contact so he didn’t cry. “Besides, you’ve gotten me shot more than he has,” Mickey muttered. 

Ian glared, pulling a face. “Fuck off.”

Mickey held up his hands in defeat. “I’m just sayin’.”

Ian leaned into his space, deadly serious. “If you piss him off by taking my name, he will kill you, Mickey. And if I have to divorce you to avoid that, I absolutely will.” 

Mickey didn’t back down or even flinch, his head tilted. “I just won’t sign the papers, bitch.”

Ian tried to stifle a grin. “Oh really?” 

“Yeah _really_ ,” Mickey shot back mockingly. His hands slid over Ian’s hips and Ian realized how closely they were standing together. Mickey had a way of distracting him from the obvious. He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to Ian’s lips, almost nuzzling. Hannah was right, Mickey was absolutely a puppy. 

“I’m doing this,” Mickey told him firmly, breath ghosting over his lips. “He’s been fighting us for half our lives, it’s time to end it. Last nail in the coffin.” 

Ian sighed and wrapped his arms around Mickey’s neck, pulling him in tight. 

“What if he tries to hurt you again?” Ian whispered, nose against his head. Mickey’s hands rubbed up and down his back soothingly. 

“Then we’ll deal with it. Together. Like last time.” _And not like we used to_ , was left unsaid but loud and clear all the same. They weren’t kids anymore. They’d done their time and paid their dues and whatever stupid coming of age metaphor you could think of. They’d just circled right back around and ran back to each other. Terry couldn’t be the bogeyman running their lives anymore. Especially not if Mickey decided he was ready for kids. 

“Kay,” Ian said, kissing just above his ear. “Okay.” 

“Good.” Mickey pulled back and kissed him properly. “Now, can we go home or do you wanna show me off some more?” 

Ian balked immediately, scoffing and trying to deny it. Mickey just raised his brows and nodded skeptically as he talked in circles and made excuses. 

“Uh huh, whatever you say, firecrotch. I may be pretty, but I ain’t stupid. You owe me one.” 

“But Miiickey,” he whined, following him through the gate and into the house. “They wanted to meet you and I wanted you to meet them, and--”

“Give it up, you ain’t sneaky.”

Ian practically stamped his feet like a child, but stopped dead next to Mickey as they both took in the scene in their shared kitchen. Franny was there...alone for some reason...with flour, oatmeal, and what smelled like dish soap all over the table. And her hands. And her hair. And her clothes. 

Mickey immediately spun on his heel and went up the stairs.

“Cashing it in early, firecrotch!” he called down. Ian threw his hands up, bracing against the wall to look up the stairs after him.

“Are you serious right now?” 

“Sucks to suck, bitch!”

Ian sighed and turned slowly back around to face his niece. She seemed frozen in place momentarily, but he knew that wouldn’t last long. Ian held out his hands placatingly.

“Okay, Franny? I need you to put your hands up real high and don’t touch _anything_.” 

She smirked. 

Fuck.


End file.
